


tree's a charm

by mixtapestar



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Getting Together, Graduate School, M/M, Praise Kink, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28305534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixtapestar/pseuds/mixtapestar
Summary: Quentin goes back with Margo to her dad's house for winter break, where he finally meets the infamous Eliot Waugh.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 21
Kudos: 127
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	tree's a charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ice_Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Rain/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Ice_Rain! Your favored tropes/settings match a lot of my own, so I really enjoyed writing this for you. :) Enjoy! <3
> 
> Thank you Rubi for beta reading!

It's the end of Quentin's first semester of grad school at NYU, and he could not be more ready for the break. He just has to get through the last thousand things on his to-do list before he can relax. If only he could make himself stop messing around on his phone and focus.

"Any plans for the holidays?" Margo asks when it's clear neither of them are getting any studying done. Quentin sighs and sets his phone down, looking over at her across their mountain of papers and books.

"I'm supposed to go see my mom," Quentin says, sitting back. "I got out of it last year. First year without Dad, y'know, so it was kind of an excuse. God, that sounds terrible. But Christmas with Dad was so _easy_ , we just like, sat on the couch most of the time. He'd make something in the smoker, and I'd get something from the store that I could just throw in the oven for twenty minutes. At Mom's it's like a whole ordeal. Heaven forbid I show up without a homemade dessert."

Margo arches an eyebrow. "You don't _have_ to go see her, you know, if it's so terrible."

Quentin shrugs. "I guess it beats sitting in my apartment alone all week. Everyone else will be off dealing with family, there's no reason I should get out of it."

"You could come back with me," Margo suggests casually. "It'll just be me, my dad, and my friend from SUNY Purchase."

" _Oh_ , I'd finally get to meet the infamous Eliot?" Quentin says, grinning. "Maybe I can find out the _real_ story behind what happened to your little black dress."

"You _know_ you're not ready for that." Her phone trills a reminder alarm, and she silences it with a frown. "Think about it. I promise you won't have to bring a dessert. I've had your ready-made cookies; there's no need to subject my loved ones to your cooking."

She pats him on the head on her way out of the study room. It's only once she's out of the room that Quentin allows himself a real smile, touched at the invitation.

***

They leave together on a Thursday. Quentin's still got a stack of papers left to grade, but he can just as easily do that from Margo's place in the suburbs as he can from his on-campus apartment.

Margo's place—or rather, her dad, Paul's—is tucked away in a small neighborhood about an hour north of the city. They spend most of the drive up bitching about their professors and students, the neverending diatribe of being a TA. It's nice to get it out of his system, though, and he knows Margo had a particularly tough time with the students in her intro poly sci class this year.

It isn't until they walk in that Quentin starts to feel nervous, meeting someone for the first time, staying in their home. Paul is friendly, though, with a solitary attitude that Quentin can appreciate.

" _Dad_ ," Margo says suddenly. "What happened to the couch?"

"Donated it," Paul says, shrugging. "The chairs are more comfortable than that lumpy old thing anyway."

"Well we can't ask Quentin to sleep in a _chair_ , Dad."

"Oh, I'm really fine—" Quentin starts to say, but there's no interrupting them.

"The boys can share the guest room. There's plenty of space, even with your boy Eliot's freakishly long legs."

As Margo rolls her eyes, Quentin tries to recall what Eliot looks like from the pictures he's seen. He remembers thinking _gorgeous_ and, immediately, _out of my league_ , and he's had no reason to revisit the thought until now. Surely he can stomach sharing a bed with some unattainable adonis for a couple of weeks, right?

"Sorry, Q," she says, taking his bag despite his protests. "If El kicks in his sleep or something, you can send him to sleep with me."

Quentin follows her upstairs. "Thanks, Margo, but we both know what happened the last time someone tried to interfere with your beauty sleep."

"This is why I can't do roommates," she says simply, unrepentant.

He is a little relieved to see that Paul wasn't exaggerating—the bed is a decent size, definitely easy to share with another person without any trouble. He tosses his pillow down on the side closest to the door, hoping that if his insomnia decides to set in, he can slip out of the room without disturbing Eliot. With a grin, he assures Margo that they can make it work.

It isn't until he meets Eliot that he starts to have second thoughts.

The pictures hadn't done him a bit of justice. Underneath his fancy tan pea coat, he's wearing a paisley button-up that seems tailored to fit him. The browns in it and in his slacks really make his eyes pop. And his hair is perfectly coiffed, curls tumbling down across his forehead in a way that makes Quentin want to reach out and touch. Quentin clears his throat, willing himself to focus, and introduces himself.

"Margo severely undersold you," Eliot says, giving him a thorough once over. Quentin has to fight not to squirm under his gaze.

"Oh, I doubt that," Quentin says, wondering what else he could possibly say to that. He feels immensely underdressed in his Fillory t-shirt and jeans.

"Has she shown you the bridge out back yet?" Quentin shakes his head. "Bambi! I'm taking your friend out back to show him the bridge!"

"Fine, just don't let Fiona past the gate, or she'll jump in the creek," Margo shouts back from the kitchen.

"Oh, this is nice," Quentin says when they walk to the bridge, which spans over a creek that runs through Paul's backyard. A seat is built into the side of it, and he and Eliot sit, Margo's shih tzu Fiona yapping at them from where she's cordoned off on the other side of the gate. There's a chilly breeze that's more refreshing than icy as it washes over Quentin.

He takes the cigarette Eliot offers him and starts to relax for the first time since they've arrived. "So, how long have you known Margo?" he asks, just for an excuse to hear Eliot talk. The story of their first meeting is a wild one, but Quentin has a feeling Eliot is telling the truth. He can definitely picture Margo stealing the show when pulled onstage for an improv sketch.

"How about you?" Eliot prompts.

"Nothing quite so exciting. We're usually in the library at the same time, studying or researching. She found me spiraling one day when I couldn't find a particular book on Plover, and she's been my voice of reason ever since."

Before he realizes it, he's down a rabbit hole on his theory about the Fillory books and their allegory for sexual awakening. He's been talking about his research and fucking _fan fiction_ for so long that it's starting to get dark out. "Jesus, what time is it? You could have told me to shut up at any time."

"Why would I do that?" Eliot asks, and his expression certainly _looks_ like Quentin's got his full attention. "C'mon, you look like you're freezing. Let's go see if we can help with dinner."

Quentin follows Eliot's lead, but Margo shoos him out of the kitchen almost immediately, sending him upstairs to grade his papers a safe distance from their soon-to-be delicious meal.

Dinner is awkward, at first, until the wine starts to settle in, loosening Quentin up and making him realize it's only weird for him. Margo and Eliot have an easy rapport, and Paul tends to stay silent, only interjecting when he feels the need. Quentin finds it easier to jump in once the alcohol soothes his nerves a bit, and soon he's right there with them, sharing his own opinions on the latest Broadway shows. He hasn't seen _Hadestown_ yet, but based on the way Eliot talks about it, he knows he has to go.

He lies awake in bed far too long that evening, listening to Eliot's even breathing and repeating a worry cycle in his head about sharing a bed with him. Logistically he knows they're just two bodies sleeping next to each other, but Quentin is definitely interested, and he fears what he might do in his sleep. The last thing he needs right before Christmas is Margo kicking him out because he touched her best friend inappropriately in what he thought was just a dream.

Eventually, exhaustion outweighs anxiety, and Quentin falls asleep. The night is uneventful, and he wakes up alone, late, entirely well-rested.

***

The next week at Margo's is everything Quentin ever wanted from a Christmas vacation. Once he finishes the last of his grading, he logs out of his university account and lets himself actually relax for the first time in a long time. Paul's chairs in the living room are as comfortable as advertised; even if Quentin wouldn't be comfortable spending a whole night in one, he finds himself dozing off by the fire more than once.

Each night, Eliot crafts them a new seasonal cocktail, and they put something on from Netflix, either a Christmas movie or one of the shows they missed out on because of grad school. Paul usually only sticks around for the first hour, and then they wind up chatting over the movie or show so much that they miss out on half of it anyway.

Meanwhile, Quentin's crush on Eliot is showing no signs of diminishing. Eliot's not just hot, he's _witty_ , and talented, and tactile, and really quite caring underneath his aloof facade. Sharing a bed with him hasn't been quite so torturous as he'd first feared. Sure, every time he wakes up they're touching in some way—sometimes just with their arms brushing, sometimes closer with their legs tangled—but he doesn't worry too much about it. He hasn't embarrassed himself yet, and he's getting some of the best sleep he's had in months.

It doesn't help that Eliot is a humongous flirt. Which is nothing Quentin didn't know about, even before he met Eliot, but it's hard not to take it seriously when Eliot is constantly calling him cute or laughing at his dorky jokes or reaching out to touch him as he passes by. Of course, when Quentin accompanies him to the liquor store to replenish Paul's liquor cabinet, Eliot also flirts with the employee on the floor _and_ both cashiers. He tries to remember that when Eliot's touches seem to linger.

Overall, Quentin can't help but be happy he accepted Margo's invitation. He's getting so much reading for leisure done—which definitely wouldn't have happened at his mom's—and hanging out with Margo and Eliot is a great time. The two of them clearly have a long and full history together, evident not just from their stories but from the way they seem to read each other's minds at times. And yet Quentin doesn't feel like the odd man out; they seem to enjoy bringing him in as much as he enjoys being included. They spend one full day baking, and other than the moment Quentin had to excuse himself when Eliot's voice singing along to the radio got to him a little _too_ much, it's a riot from start to finish.

That night, at dinner, the conversation turns to decorating the house. Namely, whether or not they should go pick out a last-minute Christmas tree.

"I can't believe you two are on the same side," Margo says, exasperated. To Eliot, she says, "You barely even celebrate Christmas, and _you_ ," she adds, focusing on Quentin now, "weren't you waxing poetic on how little you wanted to have to do for the holidays?"

Quentin shrugs. "It's fun to do with friends," he says defensively, and only after he's said it does he wonder if that's too forward to say about Eliot, a man he's known for a handful of days.

"Exactly. Q gets it," Eliot says, using the nickname now that he's heard Margo say it, his hand reaching across the table to rest over Quentin's. Quentin feels a flush spread up from his arm to his face, and fights not to let his hand twitch.

"Dad? You sure you don't want to put a stop to this? It's _your_ house."

Paul shrugs. "I don't mind having a tree if you kids would like it. It does make the house smell nice."

Margo sighs, clearly outnumbered. Quentin can tell from her little smile that she likes the idea, even if she's arguing against it. "Fine. We'll go pick one out tomorrow. But you two are tying the damn thing to the car."

***

The next morning finds Quentin in a colder-than-is-strictly-necessary shower, trying to wash away the embarrassment he'd woken up with. He'd been sleeping well, a little _too_ well, dreaming of sitting on Eliot's lap and kissing him filthily, hungrily, grinding down against his ridiculous cock, which Quentin had caught a glimpse of when they were changing last night. He awoke with a start, finding his legs tangled up with Eliot's, and Eliot's arm draped across his middle. It would be cozy if not for the raging hard-on threatening to push past the slit of his boxers, held back by one flimsy, barely-there button. He scrambled to get out of bed, probably—almost _definitely_ waking Eliot up in the process, but he didn't dare turn back as he grabbed a towel and darted off to the bathroom.

Now, the cold water is barely doing anything except making him shiver. Finally, with a sigh, he twists the handle back over to warm and takes his cock in hand, giving in to the impulse to run back over his dream, and the imagined feel of Eliot's cock against his ass. It doesn't take long for him to come, biting his lip and imagining Eliot's warm voice egging him on.

He has to go back to their room after, since in his rush he'd failed to grab new clothes for the day. He walks in to find Eliot still lying in bed, awake, stretching his ridiculously long arms over his head when he sees Quentin walk in. "Morning," he rumbles, rubbing a hand lazily over his chest. Quentin forces himself to look away.

"G'morning."

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, shifting through his duffle bag to find a suitable shirt for the day. "I'm pretty sure those Cranberry Moscow Mules from last night helped."

"Mm, maybe my best concoction so far." He gets out of bed, stretching again, and goes to the dresser where he's actually unpacked his things like a normal human. Quentin uses his chance to quickly pull on underwear and jeans while he knows Eliot is distracted. "You should dress warmly today," Eliot says, pulling out a soft-looking creme sweater. "You can borrow one of my scarves, if you want."

Even though Quentin doesn't know why it's important for him to dress warmly, he happily takes Eliot up on his offer, something thrilling in wearing Eliot's clothes. The red scarf actually makes him feel more presentable, even with his plain henley, hoodie, and coat.

'Getting a tree', as it turns out, doesn't just mean driving to the nearest Home Depot and picking one out, but instead loading into the car and driving two hours to " _the_ best tree farm in the state, Q, you're gonna love it."

"Why do I feel like I've been played?" Quentin says, sitting up front after Eliot insists on sitting in the back to stretch out his legs.

"We have to put on a show every year for Daddy, or he'll natter on about it being 'too much trouble' or some shit. He loves having a tree in the house, though; he just won't admit it."

Once they're on the highway, Margo asks Quentin to plug in her phone. "I refuse to listen to the same ten songs on the radio. I've got my own holiday playlist. Look for the one labeled 'Annual Cheer'."

Quentin laughs as he finds it, playing the first song: "Merry Christmas, Kiss My Ass". "I never took you for a pop-punk fan," he says, propping her phone up in the cup holder.

"Oh, do I have _stories_ ," Eliot says from the back, and Quentin glances at him in the mirror to find him grinning wickedly. His stomach does a weird flip and he stares out at the road instead.

'Tree farm', as it turns out, is a mild term for where they actually wind up. The place looks like Christmas exploded; several large hills stretch all around full of trees, but right in the center is practically a theme park, boasting hay rides, visits with Santa, Christmas games, shopping, and more. "Is this a bad time to mention that I don't normally _do_ Christmas, beyond the food?"

"Don't worry, neither do I," Eliot says, resting a hand at the small of Quentin's back. He can practically feel it burning through his three layers of clothing. "It's actually fun, if you don't let all the kids get underfoot. Oh, and if you start off buying a mug of mulled wine."

Luckily, they do just that, taking advantage of the 'up to two per transaction' to stock up, as Margo reveals the thermoses she brought just for this occasion. Next, they queue up for a hayride, and Quentin finds himself having fun. Eliot and Margo are full of anecdotes from past years, and Eliot won't stop _touching_ him.

When their hayride lets them off at the top of the hill, they visit the drink stand there for a top-off. Margo switches to hot cider, but Quentin and Eliot keep drinking, toasting to more and more ridiculous things as they make their way through the trees.

Margo gives them instructions as they walk. "We're looking for something that'll fit in the house easily, so no more than like, a foot taller than Eliot."

"To not needing a measuring pole!" Eliot says, and Quentin obligingly clinks their thermoses together.

"And I want something full, none of this sparse 'put it in the corner' bullshit."

Once he gets started, Quentin takes his tree selection very seriously. He doesn't even realize Eliot has stuck with him until he finds a potential winner and goes to call for him, to check the height, and realizes he's right there. "Oh! Hi."

"Hi," Eliot says warmly, crowding into his space. "You take this seriously, huh? Feels like you were lost to the world just then."

"Sorry, I just get kinda… hyper-focused, sometimes?"

"Don't apologize. It was cute. You got this little wrinkle right here when you found something wrong with a tree," Eliot says, pressing a gloved finger right between his brows.

"Oh," Quentin says, losing his train of thought with Eliot's eyes so focused on him.

Eliot sighs, his expression sobering. He's standing _so_ close. His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, "Is it gonna make things too weird if I kiss you?"

"I like weird," Quentin breathes out, and barely has time to feel stupid for saying that before Eliot's lips are on his.

His lips are chapped and taste of mulled wine, or maybe that's just all Quentin can taste, right now. It's a wonderful feeling—better than he's imagined—with Eliot's focus entirely on him. He gasps as Eliot's cold, suddenly ungloved fingers slip under his shirt, pressing up against his skin and warming quickly. Quentin, for his part, can do nothing but grab at the lapels of Eliot's pea coat, pulling him down so that Quentin can deepen the kiss.

There's a rustle nearby, suddenly, and they pull away just in time to see two kids run through the row of trees to their left, parents nowhere to be seen. Quentin laughs into Eliot's shoulder as Eliot squeezes his fingers at his waist, murmuring, "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that."

Quentin doesn't point out that they only met a week ago, because he feels like it's been forever, too. "Probably as long as I've wanted you to."

"Where the fuck are you guys?" shouts Margo from a few rows over, uncaring of the families and children around.

"Over here, Bambi," Eliot calls back, throwing his free hand in the air and waving, his other hand still warm and soft against Quentin's skin. "We think we found it," Eliot adds, smiling down at Quentin.

Margo joins them, and if she notices Eliot's hand under Quentin's shirt, she doesn't mention it. "Ooh, good find," she says, pushing past Eliot.

Eliot slides his hand to the small of Quentin's back, rubbing small circles there as Margo circles the tree, looking for flaws.

"Q, go flag down one of the helpers with the chainsaws," Margo tells him, and he obeys, feeling the chill when Eliot pulls his hand back. It takes a minute to find someone who isn't already helping someone, but then he comes back to find Margo grinning and Eliot with an unreadable expression, but he winks when he sees Quentin.

"What did I miss?" Quentin murmurs as Margo takes over, instructing their helper on exactly how she expects her tree to be cut.

"Spark Notes version of the shovel talk," Eliot says, slinging his arm around Quentin's shoulders. "I've been assured you'll get your version before the day's out."

Quentin shudders. "As if I'm not already scared enough of her," he says, noting that she's not-quite convincing the helper to hand over the chainsaw.

"Guess that means you're stuck with me," Eliot murmurs, right up against his ear.

"Guess so," Quentin says, beaming up at him.

***

As it turns out, Eliot is a master at tying the tree to the car, so Quentin's help isn't needed. Instead, Margo pulls him along to the shop with her, calling for Eliot to join them when he's done.

"So, he finally made a move, huh?"

Quentin laughs, a little surprised. "Did you know he was going to?"

Margo shrugs. "I knew you two would hit it off. I thought you might take more convincing, though. Not bad. I've always said you could use a good dicking down."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "It's not like I _never_ get laid."

"Not nearly often enough," she says with a smirk and then, gradually, her face softens. "Just be gentle with him, okay? He likes to play up that playboy persona, but when he gets serious about someone, he gets _serious_."

"We only just met," Quentin murmurs, not meeting her eye. He'd maybe been contemplating what it would be like to date Eliot, as they held hands on the hayride back down the mountain. But that was just a daydream, nothing he was counting on.

"Yeah, but I know you, and I know him even better. There's a reason I've been trying to get you two to meet." Quentin lets himself think about that for a moment as they walk through the rows of ornaments. Years of experience have taught him never to expect anything serious from a mutual attraction, but Margo seems to think there could be something here. And if Quentin's honest with himself, he really wants there to be.

"Wait, was this the shovel talk? I expected more threats of violence."

"Bitch, you know what you're in for if you break my best friend's heart. I don't _have_ to say it."

Quentin swallows. "Fair enough."

He winds up buying the kitschy mug with the tree farm's logo on it, despite Margo's teasing. He thinks he might want something to remember this day in the future.

Back at the car, they find Eliot lounging against the hood, his phone in hand. He tucks it back into his back pocket when they approach, and sweeps Quentin into another kiss before he can say a word.

Quentin opens the passenger side door and frowns, his eyes darting to Eliot in the back.

"Ugh," Margo scoffs. "Go ahead, you can sit with him. But no sex in my dad's car."

Quentin splutters, but Eliot seems unfazed by the implication. "As if I'd let our first time together be so tawdry."

"You're right, that's more your fourth date style," Margo says with a smirk. Quentin swallows thickly. He knows they're probably joking, but still… the thought lingers as he moves to sit with Eliot.

Mostly he spends the ride back cuddled up to Eliot's side, giving in to the lull of the road and the mulled wine still in his system before long, then waking up an unknown number of miles later.

Back at the house, they spend the evening setting up and decorating the tree, and while Eliot definitely isn't shy about touching him, Quentin doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of Margo's dad. So they make it through dinner, and pictures, and one more drink _after_ dinner ("really, El? A plain-ass hot toddy? You're slipping.") before Margo finally 'sends them to bed' with a wink.

As soon as Eliot shuts the door, Quentin crowds him up against it, kissing the pale expanse of his throat like he's wanted to all night. Eliot utters a soft groan and brings their lips together, wrapping his arms around Quentin's shoulders. Quentin's tongue and Eliot's are well acquainted by the time Quentin's patience runs out, and he pushes a thigh up between Eliot's legs.

Eliot sighs happily, breaking out of the kiss. "I know Margo and I like to joke, but if you're not comfortable—"

"Are you kidding me? I've been dying to take your clothes off since the moment you asked to kiss me."

Eliot raises his eyebrows. "Well in that case, don't let me stop you."

"Earlier than that, actually, if we're being honest," Quentin says as he pulls Eliot's sweater over his head.

Eliot hums, helping Quentin out of his own shirt. "How early are we talking?"

Quentin shivers as Eliot takes the opportunity to run his fingers over his chest. "I mean, I don't know. Early."

"Like as soon as we met, early? Because that's how it was for me."

Quentin swallows, looking up into Eliot's eyes as his fingers go for Quentin's button-fly. "Really?"

"You have no idea how sexy you are, do you?" Eliot murmurs, dipping down to kiss him again. Quentin grunts a little as Eliot's fingers dip into his underwear and slide over his hardening cock. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to touch Eliot in return.

He palms at the front of Eliot's pants, feeling the length he'd barely seen, and before he can second-guess himself, he says, "I wanna suck you off."

" _Fuck_ , Q. Are you sure? I'm a little… big."

"No, I know. I mean, I saw. Last night."

"Oh _really_?" Eliot says with a huge, pleased grin.

"You were totally showing off, weren't you?" Quentin says, realizing.

"More like… feeling out the room," he says, palming a hand over Quentin's ass and grinding up against him again.

Quentin swallows a moan. Eliot traces his fingers along Quentin's lips, eyes dancing. "It's a crime that this is happening in someone else's house. I bet you can really get loud if given the opportunity."

"Come visit me at my apartment next year and find out," Quentin suggests before he can stop himself.

Eliot's fingers still against his lips. Quentin is dying to suck them inside his mouth, but he's not sure if that would make this moment more or less awkward. Eliot's eyes are intense when Quentin finally looks up at them. "Deal," Eliot responds, his voice low.

Quentin whines a little and gives in to the impulse, licking at Eliot's fingers and pulling them inside his mouth, sucking a little. He thrills at the way Eliot's mouth falls open, watching him, and Quentin swears he can feel his cock twitch between their layers. "Get on the bed?" Quentin suggests, pulling away from Eliot's fingers.

Eliot nods, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He ditches the rest of his clothes as he goes, and while Quentin means to do the same, he gets momentarily sidetracked seeing Eliot spread out in all his glory, with his long legs, flat stomach, and heavy dick between his thighs. _Fuck_ , he can't wait to get that cock inside his mouth.

"Jesus, Q," Eliot says, his eyes raking up and down Quentin's naked chest as he props up on his elbows. "You're hiding _all that_ under those ridiculous clothes?"

Quentin snaps out of his reverie and kicks his jeans and boxers off, climbing over Eliot on the bed to straddle his legs. "There's nothing to hide."

Eliot looks like he wants to argue further, but Quentin is far more interested in other topics, so without preamble he bends down and licks a stripe over Eliot's cock. Eliot muffles a moan, his hands going to Quentin's hair immediately. Quentin darts his eyes up as he settles his weight more comfortably over Eliot. "That's good," he says, tilting his head just slightly. "I don't mind if you pull a little."

"Oh god, you really are a wonder, aren't you?" Eliot says, and then breathes in sharply as Quentin takes the head of his cock into his mouth. He takes his time, sucking around the crown lightly as he works over the shaft with his hand, and it’s not long before Eliot’s fully hard. He's delightfully responsive, his breathy moans telling Quentin what he likes when his words don't. And he keeps telling Quentin how _good_ he is, which is something Quentin didn't know until today was one of his turn-ons.

He rolls Eliot's balls in his hand and sinks down further until he's got about half of his length in his mouth, then he starts working him hard, taking in a little more as he relaxes into the slide of it. Eliot's fingers massage a perfect pressure against his scalp as he moves, praise falling from Eliot's lips that just encourages him further, until Eliot's thighs tense and he calls out a warning. Quentin doesn't let that slow him down, instead shifting a little to suck him better until he can feel the combined pleasure of Eliot pulling on his hair and coming on his tongue.

" _Holy fuck_ , Q, where have you been all my life?" Eliot says after a moment, beckoning him further up the bed. He cradles Quentin's face in his hands, kissing him sweetly, deeply, with no apparent worry over the fact that Quentin just had his come in his mouth.

It's not hard to get lost in the kiss, his mind still full of Eliot's praise and the kind of reactions that you can't fake. Whatever doubt that had lingered in his mind is gone now—Eliot _wants_ him. Quentin gasps as Eliot rolls them over, running his hands over Quentin's body as he gets situated in the new position.

"Look at you. You're so hard. Is this just from getting me off?" he asks, slicking his fingers with Quentin's precome before taking his cock in hand.

"I, _ahh_ , liked the things you were saying."

"Yeah? Do you know how gorgeous you looked, taking my cock? Not even hesitating, _fuck_. I can't wait to try everything with you."

Quentin's heart misses a beat. "Me neither. It might, um—" He cuts himself off. Is he really going to go there now? Too late now to take it back, he figures, and plunges ahead. "It might take longer than the rest of this week to get to _everything_."

"Oh, I'm not planning on stopping after this week," Eliot says, still stroking him deliberately, just a touch too slow. "Are you?"

"No, I um. I mean, I already invited you to my apartment."

"You did, didn't you?" And without even bothering with any further buildup, Eliot sinks his mouth down over Quentin's cock, making him shout a _little_ too loudly as his fingers grab at the sheets.

" _Jesus_ , Eliot, that is— _fuck_ , you're really good at that," he gasps, writhing a little until Eliot holds down his hips. And _oh_ , that's good too, Eliot's hands firm against him as he moves over Quentin's cock.

When Eliot reaches down to fondle his balls, he teases a finger further back against Quentin's perineum. Quentin spreads his legs impulsively and tries like hell to keep his moaning to a reasonable volume as he imagines Eliot fingering him open, getting him ready so that he can fuck him.

"I'm close, _oh god_ , El, I'm so close—" he breathes out, gripping tightly at the sheets. Any shame he feels at not lasting is washed away by the _noise_ that Eliot makes, unmistakably aroused, as he does something with his tongue that has Quentin arching his back and coming, hard, his orgasm lighting up his whole body.

If Quentin thought he was relaxed before, it's got nothing on the way he feels when Eliot curls up next to him, kissing him lazily and tangling their legs together. He feels wrung out in the best way, and the way Eliot is pressed up against him like he doesn't plan on going anywhere stills some anxious part of his mind.

The next morning, after his shower, Eliot insists that Quentin wear what he calls his 'favorite cable-knit sweater'. At the breakfast table, Margo arches a brow at him, then at Eliot, continuing some silent conversation between the two of them. Quentin shrugs and focuses on his waffles.

"You know that's his favorite sweater," Margo tells him later, when Eliot goes out back with Paul to help him with the smoker.

"Oh. Yeah, he mentioned he really liked it," Quentin says, smiling as he pulls the sleeves over his hands.

Margo looks like she's fighting a smile. "Yeah. But I do mean it's his _favorite_ sweater."

"I don't think I'm following."

"Eliot doesn't just lend his clothes out to whoever. And that's his _favorite_." Quentin's eyes dart to the back door as he starts to realize the implications. "You better be ready, Q, because you're about to get the full Eliot Waugh boyfriend experience."

Quentin can't help the dopey grin that slides onto his face.

"Ugh," Margo says, her scoff belied by her smile. "One of you better make me your Best Woman at the wedding."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! <3


End file.
